Ménage à trois
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio all adore each other, and live happily together in love. But their three-person relationship isn't always accepted or understood by outsiders, and each of them faces challenges they must overcome, and decisions they must make in order to stay together. Three interconnected one-shots. Prussia x France x Spain. :)
1. GILBERT

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**MÉNAGE À TROIS**

* * *

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

AMERICA — Alfred Kirkland-Bonnefoi

CANADA — Mathieu Kirkland-Bonnefoi

PORTUGAL — João Fernández Carriedo

* * *

**GILBERT**

Gil, is that you?"

Gilbert quietly cursed as he shrugged out of his coat, then turned. "Sorry, Fran, I didn't mean to wake you. I got an earlier flight," he added, explaining the late hour.

"I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow morning," Francis said, stifling a yawn. He was a slender silhouette in nothing but Gilbert's old football jersey. The frayed hem whispered against his bronze thighs as he walked forward. "Welcome home, _chér_," he smiled, soft and sleepy. He met Gilbert halfway across the flat and stretched up to give him a honeyed kiss. His touch was slow and gentle and his fingertips smelled faintly of lemons. Gilbert relaxed into it and returned the smile.

"Thanks, _schatz_," he said, burying his face in Francis' long, loose curls.

"Is everything okay?" Francis asked, pulling back after an extended moment. His cornflower eyes seemed to read discomfort in the German's face, his posture, but Gilbert dismissed it.

"It's nothing," he said, hooking a curl behind Francis' ear. "I'm just... glad to be back. I'm tired."

"Then come to bed," Francis purred, walking backwards and pulling Gilbert with him.

The bedroom was dark, untidy—Gilbert grimaced, kicking aside a pair of discarded briefs—and occupied.

"_Hmm_, Fran—?"

Antonio's sleep-heavy voice rose up from the bed, followed by a deep, breathy noise as he forced himself to his elbows, his naked back arched, his muscles rippling beneath skin the colour of cocoa. He blinked at the doorway. "Gil? Hey, you're home," he said, rubbing his eyes. A smile stole over his lips. "When did you get in?"

"Just now, _schatz_," Gilbert said, leaning across the large bed to kiss Antonio. The Spaniard cupped the back of his head, drawing him in. His lips were puckered and petal-soft, his tongue slick and tasting of spearmint.

"Did you—" _yawn_ "—have a good trip, _cariño_?"

Gilbert's smile tightened. "Sure," he said insincerely, but Antonio's olive eyes were already falling closed.

Gilbert undressed as Francis crawled back into bed. Antonio spared him a kiss and a caress, his hands going to Francis' tapered waist beneath the cotton blanket. It was thin; Gilbert could see the shape of his boyfriends through it. The light from the corridor glinted on the gold cross at Antonio's throat—the only thing the Spaniard wore—before it clicked off, and Gilbert squeezed in between them. He looped an arm around them both and pulled their lean, warm bodies snug against his sides. Antonio shimmied down and wrapped an arm around Gilbert's middle, like a—very hard, rugged—pillow; Francis rested his head on Gilbert's chest and exhaled a soft sigh of contentment.

"We missed you, _chér_."

"We're glad you're home, _cariño_."

Gilbert held his breath for a moment, feeling all of the stress and anger and tedium of the past week, the long journey, churning inside of him, then he let it all out on a long, deep sigh. He hugged his sweet, beautiful boyfriends closer, and said:

"Fran, Toni? There's something I need to..."

He stopped. Francis tipped his head up, concerned; Antonio rubbed his abs, which tickled. Both were heavy-eyed and drowsy.

"What is it, Gil?"

Gilbert pressed his lips together, feeling guilty. He knew that he should tell them. He would have to tell them eventually, preferably before the rent was due. But not tonight. Instead, he said:

"_Ich liebe dich_."

"_Ich liebe dich_," murmured Francis and Antonio clumsily, falling asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Gilbert buried his anxiety in his boyfriends. He ran his hands up Antonio's firm thighs, anchoring himself at the Spaniard's taut, round backside. He leant over Antonio, pushing his forehead between his pronounced shoulder-blades, pressing his lips to the Spaniard's hot, sweaty skin. He groaned as Antonio's hips rolled back against him, his ears full of the man's heavy panting. Beneath them both, Francis moaned in soft, breathy pleasure as Antonio pumped into him, his artist's hands coiled urgently in the Spaniard's hair, his shapely golden legs flung over Antonio's shoulders, tense and writhing. He looked beautiful, his face flushed, his blue eyes half-closed but bright, his long curls spread over a pillow. "_Oh_,_ Toni_!" he gasped, the climactic cry fuelling Gilbert's desire. "_Fran—O-oh_!_ G-Gil_!" Antonio's whole figure shuddered, sending a pulse through Gilbert's body. He grasped him tightly and grunted, spilling himself into his boyfriend.

"_Fuck_," he gasped in relief, in appreciation. He kissed the crown of Antonio's head, then forced himself to get up. "That was good," he grinned, stretching (flexing) his muscles. "I'm going to shower."

When he returned, Antonio and Francis hadn't moved. They were still in bed, lounging in the early-morning sun, talking and laughing softly, nearly nose-to-nose as if they were in a black-and-white film. "_Amor mí de mi vida_," Antonio whispered, sucking on Francis' plump bottom lip. The Frenchman's fair face was dappled with sunlight, his lashes fanning over his pink cheeks. They were both careless and lazy and beautiful and happy; Gilbert didn't want to disturb them.

"Hey, uh..."

Antonio turned his dishevelled head, looking up; Francis opened his eyes, a demure smile on his red, swollen lips.

Gilbert lost his nerve. "Which one of you wants to make me breakfast?" he teased, affectionately ruffling both of their hair.

Antonio rolled his eyes, then rolled off of Francis. Francis pushed himself up, kissed Gilbert's nose, and said: "Crêpes?"

* * *

Gilbert ate crêpes, went for a run, fidgeted through a foreign film, had sex again—it started in the kitchen and finished in the living-room—and then rejected Francis' suggestion that they all go out to a restaurant for supper.

"Why not?" Antonio asked. He was lying on the floor in his black briefs, looking like a lounging underwear model with his head pillowed on folded arms, an impish grin on his face.

"Let's go out to celebrate you being home," Francis pressed, curled up close to Gilbert on the sofa, wearing Gilbert's discarded white t-shirt. It was too big for his thin, elegant figure and clung in folds to the curves of his body. "You've been gone for a fortnight—"

"No," Gilbert said, firmer than he intended.

Antonio sat up, perplexed. Francis said: "Gil?"

Gilbert shook his head dismissively and tried to get up, but Francis pushed a hand to his chest and Antonio hugged his left leg.

"Please, _mon coeur_," said Francis, looking at him with vulnerable eyes, "tell us what's wrong."

"Did something happen?" Antonio asked, resting his chin on Gilbert's knee.

Gilbert turned his face away. He felt Francis' long fingers stroke his head, smoothing back the fine hair from his sensitive scalp. He felt Antonio gently patting his leg in encouragement. But all he could see in his memory was his father's stern face from a year ago. All he could hear was the man's deep, disapproving voice:

"_Your personal-life is none of my business_,_ Gilbert. It doesn't concern me what relationships you choose_,_ as long as you understand the consequences and accept the responsibility. If you choose to keep two partners_,_ then you will take care of two partners. Is that understood_?"

"_Yes_,_ sir._ _I will_."

He had been so confident in his promise back then, and so certain of his decision to invite his two boyfriends to live with him. He had been so sure he could take care of them, provide for them, so honoured they had chosen _him_, of all people!; that they had walked up to _him_ at that festival, when they could have chosen anyone on the street; when they were being ogled by _everyone_ on the street. They looked like they had just strut off a runway, all blinding smiles and summer tans and bright, beautiful eyes sparkling with lust and laughter. And mischief. That sweaty autumn night had been filled with promiscuous mischief. He hadn't expected either of them to call him the next day, but they had—together. And they wanted to see him again; and they wanted to talk to him and play with him and kiss him again; and Gilbert's heart pounded like a drum as he met them on that hot, crowded street in Barcelona. Back then, he couldn't not stare at them in fascinated wonder. Now, over a year later, he didn't want to look at either of them when he confessed:

"I... kind of... lost my job."

"What?"

"Why?"

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. "I yelled at my boss. A lot."

"Oh, Gil," said Francis, disappointed.

"Again?" said Antonio, looking sad.

Gilbert swallowed and looked down in guilt. "Yeah. Sorry, I just..." He clenched his fists. "I'm sorry."

A long, tense moment of silence stretched between them. Gilbert felt horrible, for letting his temper get the better of him—again—but, more so, for letting down the two people he loved most; the two people who trusted him. It was Gilbert's paycheck that paid their rent; Gilbert's job that provided them with benefits and security; Gilbert, who had promised to take care of them both if they would move to Berlin, which they did. They had forgiven him when he got arrested for drunk, disorderly, and destruction of property; when he had broken his collarbone in a bar fight; and when he had walked out on his last job in a rage. The more he thought about his behaviour over the past two weeks of working abroad, the worse he felt about the direction his career was taking. He felt like a failure. His father, his whole family—except for his brother, maybe—would have confirmed that he was. His debilitating pride was proof enough of it, which was ironic at best and cruel at worst. He had tried so hard to bite his tongue and curb his temper, but he had failed. Failed himself, his family, and the people who relied on him; the two people he loved.

"It's okay."

Francis' tone was soothing. "It's okay, _chér_," he repeated, turning Gilbert's head. "I can go back to work until you find another job. It's no trouble. I don't mind."

"And I can take more shifts at the bar," Antonio offered, crawling up onto the couch. "We're going to be fine."

"I'm sorry," Gilbert said quietly. "I shouldn't have... _Fuck_." He covered his face. "I'm sorry I keep doing this."

"Gil, it's not—"

"It's my fault, Fran. It's always my fucking fault."

"Well, yeah, maybe..." admitted Antonio, "but that doesn't mean we don't love you, Gil. Sometimes you make bad decisions, but usually you make good ones. I mean, you chose us," he teased, resting his chin cheekily on Gilbert's shoulder. "That was a pretty good one, right? _Right_?" he goaded, dragging down on Gilbert's wrist. He pouted.

Gilbert looked down at him in disbelief. _He thinks that it was _me _who chose _them—? A reluctant grin curled his lips. _Maybe I did_.

"Yeah," he said, threading his fingers through Antonio's, "that was alright."

"You'll find something new," Francis said, kissing his cheek, "something that's right for you. Until then, let us take care of you for once."

"Yeah, you can rely on us sometimes too, you know. That's what makes _this_—" said Antonio, taking Francis' hand, too, and holding all three over Gilbert's heart, "—so special. We're here to support you. We'll always be here."

"Because we love you," Francis finished.

Gilbert unclenched his jaw, swallowed. Without a word, he wrapped his boyfriends in his arms and pulled them closer to him. He hugged them tightly; maybe too tight. Maybe too fast or too reckless, but none of it mattered, because they had all chosen each other. An embarrassing noise escaped him when he tried to breathe in, making his chest shudder and squeak. It sounded _almost_ like a sob, but Francis and Antonio didn't comment.

"_Danke_, _meine Lieben_."

He kissed Francis, then Antonio.

"So, are you ready to celebrate being home with your hell'a fine boyfriends now?" Antonio winked. "My treat, _cariño_."

Gilbert smiled, for real this time. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds good."

* * *

**NOTE:** Thank-you so much for reading! I've written two more chapters, focused on Francis and Antonio respectively, so look forward to that, as well. Cheers! :)


	2. FRANCIS

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**MÉNAGE À TROIS**

* * *

**FRANCIS**

Oh, suck it, Arthur," said Francis into his cell-phone.

"_And you wonder why the court gave me custody of the kids_," said the Englishman, annoyed. "_I don't want them exposed to that kind of language this week_,_ Francis_—_or anything else_," he added dubiously.

Francis frowned. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"_It means I don't want my kids affected by their father's polyamory lifestyle with two degenerates._"

Francis clenched the phone. "My boyfriends are _not_ degenerates. And if Alfred and Mathieu _are_ affected by a stable, functioning household full of people who love and respect each other, then I'll consider it a fucking victory."

"_Oh_, _don't give me that. You and I both know that your situation_," Arthur growled out, "_is exactly why I got the kids and the house_,_ so don't pretend your fucked-up relationship is the normal one—"_

Francis ended the call and hurled the phone in frustration. He wiped tears from his eyes.

"_Hiji de puta_!" spat Antonio.

"What happened?" Gilbert asked, walking in. "Aren't the kids coming to visit?"

Francis nodded, sniffling.

"Arthur's just being a fucking dick about it," Antonio supplied, wrapping an arm around Francis. "Like he is about everything. Jealous prick."

Gilbert shook his head. "God, your ex is an asshole, Fran.

"But, hey," he added, more cheerfully, "your kids are coming! Alfred and Matthew—"

"_Mathieu_," Francis corrected. He pressed his lips together as tears filled his eyes. Antonio rubbed his back. "I just hope... they still like me."

"Oh, _cariño_, how can you even think like that?" the Spaniard scolded. "Of course they will, you're an amazing papa!"

"But they're so—so—so little!" Francis cried. "They're only four! And I haven't seen them for three months!"

"Oh boy," said Gilbert, crouching in front of Francis, taking both his hands. "Hey, look at me, _schatz_. You're a great father and your kids love you, and we're going to make this the best week they've ever had, okay? It doesn't matter what Arthur thinks. He's not important. Those kids are what's important, right?"

Francis nodded.

"_Right_?" Antonio smiled.

Francis nodded again, more confidently. "Yes, of course," he agreed. His face brightened at the thought of his children and, suddenly, he couldn't contain his joy. "My babies," he exclaimed, crying excited tears, "I can't wait to see my precious babies!"

* * *

_Papa_!" squeaked Alfred and Mathieu, dashing out of the arrival's gate.

Francis knelt and caught them both in a hug; the momentum nearly knocked him over. "_Alfred_! _Mathieu_!" he yelled, laughing and rocking them. "_Oh_!_ I've missed you so much_,_ my darlings_! _Look at how big you've gotten_! _Oh_,_ you're both so beautiful_!" he gushed, kissing their cheeks. "_I'm so happy to see you_!

"Less happy to see you," he said in English, standing to face his ex-husband. "Arthur."

"Francis," returned Arthur in the same stiff tone.

Despite their mutual disinclination to try to stay married, they had not separated as friends, or even as equal, satisfied parties. The process of getting divorced had been a long, ugly affair made worse by the factors of children, and Francis' then new boyfriend, Antonio. Even now, two-and-a-half years later, both of them harboured jealousy and resentment of—and for—the other. Their attraction had been immediate and their relationship reckless right from the start, back when their nights together were filled with loud music, strong liquor, and cigarettes; back when Arthur was nothing but the vocalist of an opening act, and Francis a dancer who worked the same circuit. Now, Francis taught at a studio whenever money was tight, and Arthur was a music producer, who lived in Kensington and drove a BMW. The court may have disapproved of Francis' affair, but the real reason Arthur had won full custody of the children had less to do with either of their morality or relationships, Francis suspected, and everything to do with the Englishman's six-figure salary.

He stared at Francis now from behind a pair of designer sunglasses, which he took off, revealing his brilliant green eyes. (_Damn his weakness for green eyes_!) In skin-tight jeans and a black t-shirt, his tattoos on display, Francis hated how good his ex looked. He watched that predatory gaze take him in from head-to-toe, and thought: _No_,_ you don't get to look at me like that anymore_! It made him feel naked, until the solid, reassuring weight of Antonio's arm snaked around his waist. Now Arthur glared at green-eyed Antonio, who had fluidly inserted himself, then swung over to criticize Gilbert, who was standing with his arms crossed defensively only a few feet away. He clutched his car keys like he might weaponize them if Arthur made a move toward his boyfriends.

"Alfred, Matthew," Arthur addressed the two boys instead. (_It's Mathieu_! Francis wanted to yell. _You chose the name Alfred_,_ I chose Mathieu_!)

The four-year-old twins obediently returned to Arthur, who knelt. His edges seemed to soften as he focused on them, and for that, at least, Francis was grateful.

"Do you remember what we talked about?" he asked them, taking their pudgy hands. They nodded. "Good. I want you to be good this week. Have fun, and call me before you go to bed each night, okay? Call me at any time if you need anything at all. I showed you how, remember? Good," he repeated, smiling at them. It was a nice smile; the smile of someone hopelessly besotted. "Come here, give me a hug," he said, wrapping them in his arms. He held them for a long moment, then kissed them both. "I'll see you in a week, darlings. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy!" they chirped, making Francis' heart ache.

Then the boys were back at his side, their soft, round faces beaming up at him with expectant smiles. Francis lifted Mathieu into his arms; Antonio lifted Alfred, fencing the child's garbled monologue. Arthur reluctantly handed the boys' small luggage cases to Gilbert, who took them without a word.

"Take care of my kids," Francis heard Arthur warn Gilbert, his voice quiet and threatening, but not without a nervous hitch. That's when Francis realized that he was scared; scared to leave the boys for the first time. A note of sympathy stole into his tender heart, but Gilbert's reply was stark:

"_Francis'_ kids," he said, as if that was answer enough.

Arthur glowered unhappily at him, at Antonio, and at Francis. Then he forced a confident, affectionate smile onto his face, and addressed his boys one more time:

"Goodbye, my loves. I'll see you soon."

* * *

The week seemed to fly by in a giddy, giggly dream of soft, sweet kisses and hugs like warm cookies. Francis' heart had never felt so full, so complete, as if half of it—or, two-thirds of it—had been missing until then. He spent every waking minute with Alfred and Mathieu—and every sleeping one, too, since they slept with him in the master bed; Gilbert and Antonio slept in the spare—talking and laughing, taking them out to the park and the shops and to his favourite—age-appropriate—cafés, and then to an amusement park on Antonio's night off. Francis had been nervous about the boys' reaction to meeting his boyfriends again, who insisted on being called _Gil_ and _Toni_ ("None of that creepy _Uncle_ shit," they said.) but it was a needless worry. Antonio had always been wonderful with children, and he adored Francis' as much as they adored him. He chased them around the flat like a bull, provoking peals of excited laughter, then taught them how to make churros, and sang them to sleep. Francis could feel himself falling in love all over again watching them. Gilbert liked to tease the boys, stirring a competitive spirit in Alfred, and sharing secrets with timid Mathieu. It was he they ran to with news, and accomplishments, and bedtime fears. ("No monsters in this house," he promised them, puffing-up his chest. "Know why? Because the monsters are scared of _me_!") They seemed to sense a protective nature in his strong, stable presence, as well as the approval of someone they instinctively wanted to impress. Gilbert loved teaching them, Antonio loved playing with them, and Francis loved them all.

Arthur's promised return came too soon, and many tears were shed—from Alfred and Mathieu, but mostly from Francis—and hugs and kisses exchanged as the trio bid the boys farewell. Francis held tight to them until the last possible moment, until Arthur insisted they would miss their flight if they didn't hurry—_now_, _please_. "It's not like you won't ever see them again," he scoffed in goodbye, herding the boys into security as they waved back at their papa and his boyfriends. If Gilbert and Antonio hadn't been there, Francis was sure he'd have made a scene. The instant he lost sight of his boys, his heart ached, and happy, heartfelt tears became the manifestation of loss, guilt, and regret. Gilbert and Antonio took him out that evening to distract him, enjoying a long walk through the park together, illuminated by festival lights. He leant against Gilbert, who wrapped an arm around his waist for support, and he squeezed Antonio's hand, their fingers tightly interlocked. But the moment they stepped into the flat, Francis burst into a fresh fountain of tears, because Mathieu had forgotten his plush polar bear, which was sitting on the living-room sofa.

* * *

A month later, Francis and Antonio returned home laden with paper grocery bags to find Gilbert on a call with Alfred and Mathieu. Francis almost dropped the bags when he saw their big eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks squished together on Gilbert's laptop screen, but Gilbert didn't notice, as his back was turned.

"_Maybe you could date Daddy_, _too_," Alfred was saying hopefully, "_and then we could all live together_!"

"Oh, uh... uh huh," said Gilbert uncomfortably, "that's... an idea. But maybe we should keep brainstorming, yeah?"

Francis was going to interrupt—he wanted to talk to his boys!—but Antonio stopped him. Wordless, he shook his head, then raised a finger to his lips. _Let's just listen for a minute_, said his eyes.

"Is that really what you want?" Gilbert asked, watching the boys ponder. "For your Papa and your Daddy to live together?"

"_Yes_," said Alfred immediately, "_because then Papa would be with us always_."

"Do you miss him when he's away?"

"_Yes_."

"And do you think—" Gilbert paused, careful, "—that your Daddy and your Papa would be happy together?"

Francis held his breath. Antonio rubbed his back, lending pre-emptive comfort. The reply was a long time in coming, but when it did it came from Mathieu's voice, so small and soft that Francis had to strain to hear it:

"_No_," he said. "_I think they would yell a lot_."

"_Yeah_," Alfred agreed, louder, sadder. "_I don't think they like each other very much_."

It was then that Gilbert spotted his boyfriends standing in the doorway. It wasn't until Francis saw sympathy colour the German's face that he realized he was crying, again. He pinched his lips, but couldn't stop the flow of tears; couldn't bear the thought of hurting his children.

"Maybe not," Gilbert agreed with Alfred, "but, you know, I think they could learn to get along for you guys. They both love you a lot. You know that, don't you?" Two nods; one fast and fervent, the other slow and subtle. "I just think they need their own space."

"_It's too much space_," Alfred said.

"_I miss Papa_," Mathieu whispered. "_I wish he was with us always_."

Francis pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. Antonio closed him into a protective hug.

Gilbert glanced at his boyfriends, then smiled at the boys. "Well," he said, feigning contemplation, "it sounds like everyone would be a lot happier if Papa was living in London with you, doesn't it?"

"_Yeah—_?" said Alfred hopefully, inching closer, nearly nose-to-nose with the screen. Behind him, Mathieu's violet eyes were big and focused.

"Not in the same house," Gilbert reiterated, "but in the same city. Would you like that?"

"_Yes_!" they said in union.

"Me, too," Gilbert nodded. He looked directly at Francis then, who stared back in confusion. The German smiled his knight's smile; the smile that said: _I will do anything for you_. He shrugged helplessly, and said: "I guess we should all move to London then."

* * *

_Gil_?" Francis' voice was a bare whisper.

Gilbert closed the laptop and got up from the table. He was still smiling that handsome, cocksure smile as he approached his boyfriends.

"Are you—are you serious?" Francis choked-out, nervously daring to hope.

"Fran, this is something we've been talking about for a while," said Gilbert, glancing at Antonio.

Antonio was smiling now too, his eyes aglow with playful mischief, proud that he had kept their plot a secret. "It didn't make sense as long as Gil worked here in Berlin, but now..." His voice lifted as his shoulders did, shrugging a dismissal. "That's not really an issue anymore."

"I'll find a job in London," Gilbert promised.

"And I can bartend anywhere," Antonio added.

Francis stared at them both, agape. "You—" His voice broke. "You'll both move to London, for my babies?"

"Hey," Gilbert gently corrected, "they're ours now, too."

"Because you're ours," Antonio needlessly explained. "London is where you're meant to be, Fran, because it's where the kids are. And we're meant to be with you. So, yeah," he grinned, wiping Francis' cheeks, "jolly ol' London it is."

Overcome with emotion, Francis collapsed against them both, wrapping his arms around his boyfriends, and crying, and kissing them. "Thank-you my loves! Oh, thank-you so much! I love you," he kissed Gilbert, then Antonio, again and again and again.

"_Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime._"

* * *

_Oh_,_ joy_," said Arthur sarcastically when Francis told him. But the tone of his voice didn't reflect the relief in his eyes.

Quieter, kinder—honest—he admitted: "_It'll make Alfred and Matt—_Mathieu_ really happy._"


	3. ANTONIO

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**MÉNAGE À TROIS**

* * *

**ANTONIO**

Toni, please," begged João, clutching his empty stein. A bubble of froth sloshed in the bottom, and the neon glow from the jukebox danced across his skin, shining in his glassy, pleading gaze. An old, tired rock song played in English, and the crowded beer hall roared as they sang along in a garbled mix of English and German, including Antonio's intoxicated boyfriends. He smiled as he watched Gilbert swing Francis in a wide, clumsy circle, pulling him back inches before a collision. Francis laughed gleefully, finding himself in Gilbert's grasp once more. He wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck and kissed him, Gilbert's fingers hooked through Francis' belt-loops and teasing the sliver of skin bared by the Frenchman's low-riding jeans. Gilbert's skin was so white, it reflected the lights; Francis glowed golden. Antonio, himself, still wore a summer tan, which turned him a rich brown. _Vanilla_,_ butterscotch_, _and cocoa. Man_,_ we taste good together_! he thought, indulging in a long, lecherous look at his boyfriends. They were giddy and gorgeous and completely unaware of the glare João was directing at them.

Antonio sighed deeply and took a drink of soda-pop (he was designated driver tonight). João leant across the table and pressed gravely on:

"This _phase_," he emphasized, "needs to end. A couple—_a romantic relationship_—is for two people, not three. What you're doing here, what you've _been_ doing for the past two years, isn't right. It's not healthy. What about actual, legal marriage and children? Don't you want those things?"

"I _do _have an actual relationship, João. _And_ children. My boyfriends and I are moving to London for—"

"If you're moving to London, why not just come home?" João interrupted. "I know you think you're in love, but _that_—" he jerked his head at the dance floor, at Antonio's laughing boyfriends, "—_isn't love_! You're just confused."

Antonio curled his lip, clenched his fists under the tabletop.

"Look," he said tightly. "I didn't invite you out tonight to insult my boyfriends. They've been nothing but nice to you since you arrived and all you've done is scowl at them. I should've left you in the fucking hotel."

João shook his head, a long, dark tendril falling over his forehead. "I'm your brother, Toni. I just want what's best for you, and it's not _them_."

"Oh?" Antonio challenged. He crossed his arms defensively. "And what _is_ best for me? What exactly do you suggest, dear big brother?"

"I'm not saying you have to become a monk." João rolled his eyes. "But this threesome thing you're doing is weird, okay? You can't possibly love them equally—"

"_I do_!" Antonio snapped suddenly, passionately, half rising from his seat. "Gil and Fran mean everything to me, so don't talk about things you don't understand!"

"Toni," João, too, raised his voice, "it's _wrong_!"

"What's wrong?" Gilbert asked innocently, puzzled. Francis was clutching his arm for balance and smiling in drunk, dreamy contentment. Antonio plucked the cell-phone from Francis' back-pocket before it fell out and he lost it, again. Then he pat the Frenchman's taut bottom for good measure. "Is everything okay, _schatz_—?" Gilbert prompted, looking between the brothers suspiciously.

João buried his nose in his stein, sucking down the froth.

Antonio said: "It's nothing, _cariño._ João was just saying he has an early flight tomorrow and he needs to go back to the hotel now."

His brother shook his head, then dropped a twenty onto the table and stood abruptly.

"_Oh wow_," Francis purred in appreciation, oblivious to João's bad mood. As if he had only just seen him, he dragged a playful finger down the man's chest. "Toni, you didn't tell us your brother was so handsome. You both look so much alike, it's—"

"_Not_ interested," said João harshly, slapping Francis' hand.

Francis flinched and shrank back against Gilbert in surprise. His eyes grew wide, misunderstanding what he had done wrong.

Gilbert's growl was a warning when he said: "Easy. It was just a joke."

"Whatever," João muttered, yanking on his jacket. "Toni," he said, green eyes glaring, "are you going to come say goodbye?"

He didn't wait for Antonio to reply, but strode to the exit without a word to his brother's boyfriends, which, Antonio reasoned, was probably for the best. Gilbert's ruby eyes were following João unhappily. He didn't take kindly to people mistreating his boyfriends on a regular, sober day, but fueled with alcohol he could become quite aggressive. Antonio didn't want to risk either Gilbert or João making a scene—poor Francis hated conflict—so, with an apologetic look for Gilbert, and a reassuring stroke for Francis, he grudgingly followed his brother outside.

"Well, have a safe flight. See you when the next relative dies—"

"_Toni_," João said, urgent but softer now, "please reconsider. I'm really worried about you, and so are Mamá and Papá."

"I think the disownment negates their parental concern," Antonio countered, bitterly sarcastic.

"But they _are _concerned, Toni! They love you!"

"No, they love what they want me to be, a version of me that expired a long time ago. I'm not that sweet little choirboy anymore, João. I'm a grown man, who doesn't need his brother or his parents to make decisions for him, so just go, okay? I really am doing just fine, you don't need to worry about me. I'm happy, and I'm in love."

João looked like he wanted to argue, but he wisely backtracked instead. "I know they'd forgive you, if that's what you're worried about," he said, referring to their parents. "They _want_ you to come home, Toni. Just admit you made a mistake. Say you're sorry and repent," he begged, clutching the cross at his throat, "because everything you're doing is breaking Mamá's heart. She can't bear to see you live like this. Please, _please_ just come home."

Antonio's hand instinctively went to his own cross, a twin of his brother's. It was the only piece of jewelry he wore anymore, and he wore it always. It was the only physical connection he had to his old life, his childhood, given to him at his Confirmation fourteen years ago and he hadn't taken it off since; not when he slept, or showered, or fucked his boyfriends. He rubbed it when he was nervous, he sucked on it when he was thoughtful, and too many times it had gotten caught in Francis' hair or on Gilbert's wristwatch. His brother saw it—saw his hesitance—and smiled hopefully, and in that moment Antonio missed him. He missed the brother João had been before the entire family had rejected Antonio for choosing Francis. ("He's _married_!" his father yelled while his mother sobbed. "He's committing _adultery_ and you're _helping_!") He missed the way João used to defend him from bullies at preschool, and tell him what a lovely singing voice he had. ("You're going to be famous someday, Tonio, I know it!") He missed the way João used to look at him and see only the little brother whom he loved, and not a degenerate in need of saving.

Just then, the beer hall's door opened and Gilbert and Francis stepped out onto the street. Neither of them spoke, but both regarded the scene with weary eyes. Gilbert's reds were intense; Francis' blues were compassionate. They waited, trusting Antonio.

Antonio took one loving look at them and he decided. He yanked the gold necklace off and placed it in João's hand, and said: "I _am_ home."

Then he slipped an arm around his boyfriends and led them back inside.

* * *

The next few weeks were spent preparing to leave Berlin.

Antonio overheard a telephone conversation between Gilbert and his terrifying father that he wished he hadn't—you knew Herr Beilschmidt was angry when he didn't yell, but got very, very quiet—but his younger brother, Ludwig, came by with pizza one evening, and gave Francis and Antonio an awkward hug each in farewell, telling them to keep Gilbert out of trouble in London. ("When are you going to let me introduce you to my cousin, Feliciano, huh?" Antonio teased the younger, bashful Beilschmidt brother. "I'm telling you, it'd be love at first sight!") He also heard Francis on the phone with Arthur, trying to get things sorted, but that was a much less impressive feat as they tended to fill the entire flat with their bickering. ("The same city as Arthur Kirkland—_yikes_," Antonio only half-joked. Gilbert theorized that exposure and routine would soften their relationship from hostile to civil, for their boys' sake. "Just as long as it doesn't soften him _too_ much," Antonio muttered, crossing his arms. "I've seen the way he still looks at our Fran.") By the end of the month, Gilbert had several job interviews scheduled, and Antonio's friend from university had promised him a position bartending at his club in Soho. Francis would devote himself entirely to his children, and Arthur was happy not to have to pay for daycare anymore. ("Like he can't afford it," Antonio rolled his eyes.) Finally, it was the night before the move: luggage had been packed and shipped, a flat had been rented not far from Antonio's new workplace, and goodbyes and farewell gifts had been exchanged between them and their friends. ("I don't think they'll let us take four whole boxes of licorice across the border, Lars. Don't they have licorice in England?" Gilbert's—_hot_—cousin merely shuddered at the thought.) But there was still one thing left on Antonio's To Do List.

"I need three, please."

"Three, sir?" asked the saleswoman, confused.

"Yes," Antonio smiled, hoping she couldn't hear his pounding heart. He wondered how many other men had stood in this same spot, sweating and fidgeting.

"Here you are, sir. Um, good luck," she smiled awkwardly, handing him the bag.

"Thank-you!"

Because the trio were feeling nostalgic—and Francis and Antonio were sentimental—they went to the public-house Gilbert had brought his boyfriends to on their first night in Berlin, and insisted on paying just like he did then. Francis, somehow, remembered what they had each ordered that night, and ordered it again. ("You have such a weird memory for food," Antonio teased.) But they didn't talk like they had back then: when Francis was fragile from his divorce, and Antonio resented his family's disownment; when both of them were eager and excited and still raw from what they had done, and both a little bit nervous about starting life over together in a new place with the German they had both fallen in love with. ("It was your smile," Francis said romantically. "It was your abs," Antonio winked, sliding his foot provocatively up Gilbert's calve under the table.) "Do you remember..." they said now, and the other two nodded, a little sad it was ending but grateful it had happened.

"Hey, let's take a detour," Antonio said when they left. He led them into the park, his fingers dancing across Gilbert's hand on the small of Francis' back between them. When he was certain they were alone on the footpath, he took a deep, brave breath and stepped in front of the others, stopping them. They stared expectantly, but didn't speak.

"I have something for you," he said, holding up his closed fists. "I didn't get the fancy boxes, but..." Slowly, he opened his hands, presenting his boyfriends with rings.

Francis covered his mouth in surprise, blue eyes soft and smiling. Gilbert looked from the rings to Antonio in disbelief, and a nervous chuckle escaped him. He said: "Are you asking us to marry you, Toni?"

"I would if I could," said Antonio seriously, honestly. "I don't want anyone else to think that either of you are available, because you're not. You're mine. I never thought I'd ever love anyone as much as I love you," he admitted, blushing now. "I never thought I'd find one person I wanted to spend my life with, let alone two, so... thank-you," he smiled, "for loving me in return. I want us to always be together.

"_Te quiero mucho_," he repeated softly.

"Oh, Toni," Francis sighed, wiping away a happy tear as he slipped a ring onto his finger. "Yes, of course we'll be together."

"Always," Gilbert agreed, doing the same.

Antonio fished the third ring out of his pocket and put it on himself. A single piece of jewelry he would never take off. Seeing it, he smiled big and bright, and a laugh escaped him. He couldn't remember ever being so happy.

The next thing he knew, he was wrapped in his boyfriends' arms, and their hands were on his back and in his hair, and their warm, smiling mouths were kissing his neck, his face, and they were squeezing him, and laughing, and he was pretty sure that Francis was crying, and he didn't want them to ever let go. He knew then, indefinitely, that he had made the right choice leaving his home, his family, as much as it had hurt him to do so. He had been unsettled—angry, even—as a youth, never happy in his relationships; always feeling incomplete. Then he found Francis, and that gnawing feeling quieted. Then they found Gilbert, and the feeling was silenced. Maybe their love was unconventional; maybe it was hard for others to understand: "How can you love two people equally?" they asked. "You must love one of them more than the other. It's not fair. It's a lie." Antonio—usually—ignored these people, because they didn't feel what he felt; they didn't know what he knew. Francis Bonnefoi and Gilbert Beilschmidt were the people his heart had chosen, and Antonio's heart was perfectly capable of loving them both.

"_Thank-you_," he whispered, holding them close. "_Thank-you for choosing me_."

Gilbert cupped the back of Antonio's head and kissed him, long and deep. Then Francis pressed himself to the Spaniard's chest, hands coiled in his dark hair, hot, slick tongue in his mouth.

"Is that a yes, then?" Antonio grinned.

Gilbert laughed, and said: "Yes."

"That's a yes," Francis confirmed, smiling.

Then Antonio's beautiful boyfriends took his hands in each of theirs, rings glinting in the lamplight, and they walked back to their Berlin flat for the last time, together.

* * *

**THE END**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


	4. EXTRA

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

****MÉNAGE À TROIS****

* * *

**EXTRA**

Matt is sick?"

"_Yes_, _the school just called to tell me_. _They called Arthur first_"—grumble of annoyance—"_but his PA wouldn't put them through_,_ because he's in a meeting_."

Francis' voice was metallic and undulating with poor reception. Antonio heard the sounds of motor traffic in the background and knew that his boyfriend had left the underground, where there was no reception, and emerged onto the busy street. He was distracted and a little breathless, hurrying to a job interview, which began in—Antonio consulted the clock—fifteen minutes. The last thing he needed to be worrying about was a sick child.

"Don't worry, Fran, I'll take care of Matt."

"_You really don't mind_?_ Because I can call to reschedule_—"

"I'm leaving now," Antonio interrupted, grabbing his jacket and jingling his house keys so that Francis could hear it. "I'm already out the door, so don't you dare even think about cancelling that interview."

Francis had been preparing for the interview—or, more accurately, _audition_—for a week. A friend-of-a-friend had told him that a prominent theatre company was looking for a dance instructor and offered to pass along his CV, which Francis had dithered over for six long, unproductive hours until Gilbert had had enough. "Just let me do it," he had said, demonstrating in one fluid motion that what he lacked in patience he made up for in perfectionism and upper-body strength. He lifted Francis right out of the desk chair and deposited him on the couch. Ten minutes later, he had finished editing Francis' CV and written a compelling cover letter to compliment it. He even had time to scowl at Antonio, who suggested that Francis use one of Gilbert's cover letters and change the name to save time. (Gilbert had applied for a lot of jobs before finally accepting the position he currently occupied.) "Financial consultant, dance instructor—what's the difference _really_? A job is a job, isn't it?" Antonio had said cheerfully. Apparently not.

"_The school said that Mathieu is running a fever_," Francis reported.

Antonio didn't have to see Francis face-to-face to envision his boyfriend's look of anxious consternation, nor did he need verbal affirmation that Francis was starting to stress, because he could hear the nervous ticks in his voice.

"Don't bite your fingernails," he said.

Francis made a small noise of reluctance, then sighed.

"You're going to be great, _cariño_. Don't worry about Matt, I'll take care of him; just worry about charming the hell out of those theatre-people, okay?"

"_Well—yes_, _okay_," Francis agreed. "Merci, mi amor. _Call me if you need to_."

Antonio promised that he would and ended the call. Then he took the train to Alfred and Mathieu's school in Kensington, which he had only ever visited once before back in September for the twins' induction into kindergarten. Alfred had been overjoyed to finally be attending real school; Mathieu had not. He had cried quietly on his first day, prompting Francis to cry less quietly in turn. (The child certainly didn't get his softness from Arthur, and that was a fact.) At least the boys had been put in the same class, which soothed nervous Mathieu and tempered energetic Alfred, at least until they got home. Then Alfred was back to reporting every detail of his day in a fast, loud recount of colour and play-acting, and Mathieu merely shrugged shyly when asked in reply.

Antonio loved them, but sometimes they gave him emotional whiplash.

By the time he arrived at the school, it was recess, and the din of primary children at play cloaked the whole block. He had a brief but curt argument at the front gate before he was permitted entry, with a visitor's pass shoved reluctantly into his hand. He felt the guard's narrowed eyes on his back as he quickly made his way to the front doors, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, it was nice to know that the children were safe and that the school didn't admit strangers, but on the other hand, how shady did he look that he needed to be interrogated and glared at like that?

He found the office easily with the help of a sign—practically a marquee—which read HEAD OFFICE in huge block letters. Inside, he smiled at the secretary and announced:

"I'm here to get Mathieu Kirkland-Bonnefoi."

"Name?" he asked primly, his fingers poised to type.

"Antonio Fernández Carriedo."

A lightning-fast search of the school's database yielded no results. "I'm sorry, sir," said the secretary placidly, "but you're not listed as a contact for that student."

Antonio was unsurprised. Francis and Arthur would be listed as the boys' parents and primary contacts, of course, and he said as much. "He's my boyfriend's kid," he explained. "And we're common-law," he added helpfully. "He's at a job interview right now, which is why I'm here instead."

He waited, but the secretary didn't move.

"Err, so… can I take Matt home now? We got a call that he was sick."

"You're not listed as a contact or guardian, sir, so I can't disclose that information. I'm sorry."

Antonio blinked owlishly.

"Are you serious?" he asked in disbelief. "You're really not going to let me take him home because my name's not on _some list_?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it's school policy. Only a parent or guardian can take a child out of school."

"I _am_ his guardian—one of them, anyway."

The secretary looked skeptical, now. "Can you prove it legally?" he asked.

"Well, no, not legally, but—"

"Sir, I'm afraid we can't let students leave with people whom we have no record of."

"Okay, yeah, I get that," said Antonio, gesturing in appeasing agreement, "but I'm telling you the truth. Matt knows me, I promise. He _lives _with me part-time. If you just let me see him, he'll tell you—"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Okay, look," he said, pulling out his wallet. He smiled to keep his frustration at bay, and began pulling out identification cards. "I have my driver's licence, my DNI, my EHIC, I even have my fucking—_ahem_, my Oyster card." He shoved them across the counter to the secretary, who didn't even deign to glance down before pushing them back.

"Sir," he said, growing impatient, "I need written permission from a parent or guardian authorizing you to take a student out of school. If you would like to take a form to fill out for next time," he reached into a drawer, then dropped a blank permission form on top of Antonio's identification, "_then_ I can add you to the contact list. But as for today, there's nothing I can do."

"Right, so, let me get this straight." Antonio took a deep breath. He didn't have Gilbert's short temper, but he wasn't exactly nonconfrontational either. He could feel anger and insult heating his blood and knew he needed to stay calm for the sake of his boyfriend and pseudo-stepsons. He laid his hands flat on the counter and leant down toward the thirty-something secretary. In a low, measured voice, he said: "I'm not allowed to take my sick, five-year-old kid home because you don't believe _me_, _my_ ID, or the fact that you called _my _boyfriend and now _I'm_ the one who's here?"

The secretary shied away and didn't make eye-contact. "I'm sorry, sir, it's school—"

"School policy, yeah, I got that. But what _you_ don't get is that I'm not leaving my kid here, so," he said, taking a resigned breath, "here's what you're going to do. Call Arthur Kirkland. No, not his office—his cell. Here, this is the number. Call him and tell him that Matt is sick and that you won't let me take him home. I'll wait."

Antonio crossed his arms in defiance as the secretary reluctantly accepted the cellphone number and called. He clenched his jaw when he heard Arthur's voice on the line, resenting the need for his help. He had never pretended to like Arthur, and vise-versa. In fact, their relationship could still be described as _hostile_, even after three years. More than Arthur and Gilbert, Arthur and Antonio did not get along, because Arthur blamed Antonio for breaking-up his marriage, even though it had been falling apart when Antonio and Francis met. Antonio's interference had been the catalyst for their divorce in Arthur's opinion, and that's all he seemed to see when he looked at Antonio, even now.

But now wasn't the time to dwell on petty rivalries, because small, scared, feverish Mathieu was somewhere in this school waiting for one of his parents to come for him. If Antonio thought back, the boy had been lethargic the past couple of days and he hadn't eaten much the night before. If only he was as vocal about his feelings as Alfred, maybe someone would have noticed yesterday, or this morning _before_ everyone else had rushed off to work. It was humourlessly ironic that the child had four father-figures in his life and yet only one of them was available right now. And it was the one who had no clue what he was doing.

Antonio had never taken care of a sick child before. He had never even picked them up from school—_clearly_. He certainly wasn't the strictest or most responsible of the parenting foursome. He didn't coddle the boys like Francis, and he couldn't provide for them as well as Arthur. Heck, he wasn't even the one they ran to for protection, because that was Gilbert. Antonio was just the _fun_ parent, the one who played with them and let them overeat sweets and stay up late. He had never had to be the primary caretaker before, because his boyfriends and Arthur were always there. Sure, Antonio had held the boys and cuddled them and sang them to sleep when they were babies, but the older they got the more he realized just how unprepared he was to really be someone's father. He hadn't _asked_ to be, after all. The position simply came with being Francis' boyfriend, whether he liked it or not. And he did like it. He loved Alfred and Mathieu as if they were his own by blood or law, because they _were_ for all intents and purposes. But loving them was simply no guarantee that he would be _good_ at parenting, despite what his boyfriends said.

"Do you know how I know you'll be a good father?" Francis had said before their move to London, before the boys became constant, permanent fixtures in Antonio's life. "Because you care enough to worry that you won't be."

Francis had smiled and kissed him lovingly, and Antonio had smiled back, but as soon as Francis had left the room Antonio's panic returned.

"They're not babies anymore," he said to Gilbert, thinking the German would understand his anxieties better than Francis. "Alfie and Matt are four-years-old, they're becoming actual little people that we are now responsible for! Doesn't that freak you out?"

"Yeah, it does," Gilbert shrugged, nonplused, "but in a good way. A way that makes me want to be better for them, you know? Don't you love them?" he asked, to which Antonio replied: "Of course I do!" Again, Gilbert shrugged: "Then it doesn't really matter if you feel ready or not, does it? Because you're not going to let yourself fail them."

Antonio had groaned and buried his face in Gilbert's t-shirt. "I really hate it when you're right," he said.

Gilbert stroked his head. "I know."

"Uh, sir—?"

Antonio blinked. "Huh? Oh, right. What did Arthur say?"

"Mr. Kirkland is on his way now. He said you needn't wait—"

"I'm not leaving," said Antonio firmly.

The secretary sighed and gestured to the waiting area before turning back to his computer.

Feeling too agitated to sit, Antonio paced the lobby, which did nothing to reassure the school staff of his good intentions. He _could_ leave now that Arthur was coming to get Mathieu, but he _wouldn't_. No matter what the school or Arthur wanted, no matter what they thought of him or his relationships, he wasn't going to leave until he knew that the child was safe. He might not be an experienced caretaker, and he might not inspire the most trust or confidence, but he could do this. He could wait.

Fortunately, he wasn't waiting long before Arthur Kirkland strut into the lobby, wearing designer sunglasses and heeled shoes that elongated his sleek, black-coated figure so that he was five centimeters taller than Antonio and looked about nine kilos thinner. Antonio was tempted to sucker-punch the wind right out of his arrogance—or, trip him like a primary schooler—but he gallantly resisted.

_Responsible_, he reminded himself. _I am a responsible_,_ mature_,_ adult-person._

"Oh, you're still here," Arthur said by way of acknowledgement. He removed his sunglasses with sardonic exasperation. "Great."

Ignoring Antonio's reply, he went straight to the office.

"Are you going to take Matt—" Antonio began when Arthur re-emerged, but, again, Arthur ignored him and started quickly down the corridor. Much to the secretary's dismay, Antonio followed.

"Hey!" he snapped, jogging to catch up. "I'm talking to you! Are you going to take Matt home?" he repeated.

Arthur side-eyed him in disdain. "_I _have a meeting to return to, because _I_ have an actual career, unlike some people."

Antonio bristled.

"Why are _you_ here anyway? Where's Francis?"

"At a job interview," Antonio countered. "And Gil is at work. He's a consultant for a private firm," he added proudly.

"Oh? Someone actually hired that walking Restraining Order?"

"_Vete a la mierda_!" Antonio snarled.

"That means nothing to me."

"Yeah? Well, do you know what this means—"

Antonio raised his hand to direct a rude gesture at Arthur just as a teacher emerged from his classroom. He gave Antonio a deeply disapproving frown.

When they reached the infirmary, Antonio followed close on Arthur's heels to enter, startling the nurse who had been expecting one man, not two. Antonio flashed his visitor's pass like an MI6 agent and headed to the back of the room, where Mathieu was ensconced. He was lying on one of two small metal beds, looking like a boiled lobster in a silver pot. His breathing was slow and laboured and his baby-soft skin was covered in sweat. Antonio stopped short when he saw him and his insides twisted; apprehensive for the child's sickly state, and angry that the school wouldn't let him take Mathieu sooner.

Mathieu, love?" said Arthur, kneeling down. He touched the child's face, pushing back his sweaty curls. "It's okay now, sweet-pea. It's time to go home."

"_Daddy_." Mathieu made a meek noise of distress, then slowly opened his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek when he saw Arthur, and Antonio knew that he was scared. _Help_, said those big violet eyes, beseeching and heartfelt.

"It's okay," Arthur repeated, coaxing Mathieu out of bed. The child moved lethargically, his eyelids fluttering. "It's time to go home, darling. Antonio is going to take you home."

Antonio realized his cue and stepped forward, brushing past Arthur as he lifted Mathieu into his arms. "Hey there, Mattie-baby," he said softly.

Mathieu wrapped his arms weakly around Antonio's neck and pressed his forehead to the underside of the man's chin. Antonio felt the burn of his feverish skin and damp curls. "_Toni_," he said in a small, sad voice, "_I don't feel good._"

"I know, _chiquito_," he soothed, holding Mathieu tight, "but you're going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

Antonio followed Arthur back to the lobby in weighted silence, the two men united in their silent agreement not to fight in front of the boys. There, Arthur spoke to the secretary and signed himself out—_We were supposed to sign in_? _Oops_, Antonio thought—then returned to bid his son goodbye for the day. He kissed Mathieu's head, ignoring his proximity to Antonio, and promised to call later to check-in. He told Mathieu to rest and drink and take whatever medicine he needed without a fuss. Then he addressed Antonio:

"Here," he said, shoving a piece of paper and a couple of banknotes into the Spaniard's hand. "Don't take my son on the train, take a taxi home."

Then he left before Antonio could reply.

He spared a glare for the Englishman's retreating back, then shoved the money into his jacket pocket. Then his shifted Mathieu's weight, trying not to dislodge him as he lifted the paper to eye-level to read.

To his surprise, it was the permission form that the secretary had offered before. It said:

I, ARTHUR KIRKLAND, hereby give permission for GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT and ANTONIO CARRIEDO to act as parent/guardians to ALFRED AND MATHIEU KIRKLAND-BONNEFOI for the duration of the present school year.

Signed this day, 16 NOV., _Arthur Kirkland_

Antonio put the form in his pocket and left the school with Mathieu half-asleep in his arms, smiling a little, and only a _little_ peeved that Arthur had forgotten his first surname.

* * *

Antonio took Mathieu home and put him straight to bed, smiling when his eyes were open and fussing and worrying when they weren't. He changed him into his pyjamas and cleaned the sweat off his flushed skin, then prepared a cold compress and laid it on his forehead. He dug an extra blanket out of the linen closet and searched the cupboards for canned soup, but ultimately scowled in dissatisfaction and began to make it himself from scratch. Francis called to check-in—for Mathieu _and_ Antonio's sake—and say that he had been asked to stay for a second audition and wouldn't be home until later. Arthur called to lecture Antonio, which Antonio had no tolerance for, so he hung up on him after reporting that Mathieu was fine.

_Is he fine_, _though_? _Fuck—I don't know_!

"Where does it hurt?" he asked, petting Mathieu's head with one hand while searching _common childhood illnesses_ on his phone with the other. Mathieu's reply of "everywhere" was most unhelpful.

By the time Francis and Gilbert got home, Antonio had convinced himself that Mathieu had caught a terrible rare illness, for which all he could do was worry and make chicken noodle soup. As soon as Francis entered, Antonio launched into a recount of everything he had done, describing Mathieu's symptoms, and following his boyfriend like a puppy-dog, asking questions and making suggestions based on online articles. Francis was grateful for Antonio's care, and he kissed him and told him as much before calmly going in to see Mathieu. Gilbert, on the other hand, was highly amused by the Spaniard's uncharacteristic mothering, and he teased him about it until Antonio whacked him with a wooden spoon.

"Not the cool, fun parent now, are you, Papa Toni," Gilbert laughed, poking Antonio's ribs.

"What is it? Is Matt okay?" Antonio asked when Francis returned. (Gilbert took advantage of the distraction to sample a spoonful of soup.) "Should I have taken him to the doctor?"

"No, no," Francis dismissed, chuckling a little. "He's going to be fine. It's just chicken-pox."

"Oh," said Antonio, breathing a sigh of relief.

"He only has a couple of spots on the back of his neck, but it'll probably be worse by tomorrow," said Francis, grabbing his cellphone. "I just need to call Arthur and tell him to keep Alfred for a few days, because the chicken-pox is really contagious. You've both had it, right?" he asked in afterthought.

"Yeah, I had it when I was a kid," Gilbert confirmed.

"Okay good, me too," said Francis. "Toni?"

Antonio had wondered why he was feeling so warm and lightheaded. He had thought it was just the soup.

"Fuck," he said.

* * *

You look silly," said Mathieu, who looked like a vanilla cake dusted with pink sprinkles.

Antonio glanced down at the child, who was using his chest as a pillow. "Yeah," he agreed, resisting the urge to scratch his own itchy spots, "so do you."

They were lying together on the living-room couch, with the curtains closed and a Disney film playing on low volume on the T.V., both of them buried beneath a heavy blanket. Antonio took a cloth and wiped the sweat from his face, even as he shivered and pulled Mathieu closer, who was also suffering chills. The boy murmured and closed his eyes, letting the deep rise-and-fall of Antonio's cagey breaths lull him to sleep.

"How are my brave boys doing?" Francis cooed softly, coming in with cups of chicken soup. "Are you feeling any better?"

Antonio accepted the cup with a raised eyebrow. "The best description for how I'm feeling is not appropriate for little ears," he replied.

"Ah," said Francis in sympathy. "Well, at least Mathieu doesn't have to suffer alone."

Antonio took a sip of soup, then licked his lips. "Huh?"

"Well, he can't feel _too_ bad about being sick, now can he?" Francis smiled. "Not when his _cool Papa Toni_ has the chicken-pox, too."

Antonio rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide a pleased smile. If someone had told him five years ago that he would be living in London with his two boyfriends and two children, he would have laughed. Now, he looked down at the child asleep on his lap and praised his own good-luck and life-choices. Maybe it was unconventional, and maybe others—like the school—would stare at him and whisper and doubt, but he didn't care. He loved his family and was grateful every single day to be a part of it. He knew that he would stand by them, do his best for them, no matter what. It wouldn't always be easy, and none of them would ever have all the answers, but the happiness was in knowing that they would figure it out together, always, and the knowledge that none of them would ever have to be alone.

One had become three had become five, and, now, Antonio wouldn't have had it any other way.

He gave Mathieu a gentle squeeze and leant back into the firm couch cushions with his soup, his son, and a half-finished Disney film, and he smiled.

_Cool Papa Toni_. He kind of liked the sound of that.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **This is probably not the Extra anyone expected (or wanted), but it's something that I've wanted to write, in many different incarnations, for a while. So, I did. It's not the full-length "Spain taking care of baby-Canada" one-shot that I had originally envisioned, but I think it's pretty cute nonetheless. :3 Thank-you to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story, either chapter-by-chapter or in it's entirety. I really appreciate all of your kind words and support! n_n


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